Paralyzed Ambition
by faetlrae
Summary: A murder in San Francisco is so violent and brutal that the San Francisco Police Department calls upon the Violent Crimes Task Force for help.
1. Chapter 1

**PARALYZED AMBITION  
** By AussieHottieMjM

DISCLAIMER  
Bailey Malone, Rachel Burke, John Grant, George Fraley, and Grace Alvarez are characters owned by Cynthia Saunders, NBC Studios, and Kronish and Company. Phoebe Halliwell, Piper Halliwell, Paige Matthews, Leo Wyatt, and Darryl Morris are characters owned by Constance M. Burge, Paramount, and Brad Kern. I am in no way affiliated with their creator and owners. No infringement is intended.

RATING  
This fic is rated T, suitable for teens, because it contains adult situations, violence, and the use of profanity.

SYNOPSIS  
A murder in San Francisco is so violent and brutal that the San Francisco Police Department calls upon the Violent Crimes Task Force for help.

SETTING  
This story is set in Profiler: Season Five. This story does not cover and/or include the plot of Joel Marks, Demian Canarez, and Rachel's imprisonment; it picks up as if it had never happened (although Danny is deceased). It is also set in Charmed: Season 8, in which Darryl Morris is still included with the show.

AUTHOR'S NOTE  
I began writing this story nearly two years ago. I wanted to finish a good majority of it before I started posting. I'll try to update around every ten days. Also, this story is meant to play out as a typical season one or two _Profiler _episode, which means that aside from the teaser at the beginning, the killer is not seen until the end of the story nears. In addition, the story is told from the Task Force's point of view, and therefore the Halliwells do not have scenes by themselves.

x x x

CHAPTER ONE

"Witchy wench," drawled a deep, hoarse voice as the dark figure it belonged to glided toward its prey. It drew a crooked blade out of what seemed to be nowhere, and began to move it ever-so-slowly toward the hysterical, shaken woman. "Don't you know you should not play with spells? They can be awfully dangerous," he growled.

He slithered forward, snake-like, the weapon at the ready; the murderous intent was so evident in his eyes that it was surprising the woman managed with her last breath to finish, "So mode it be."

x x x

The scorching San Francisco sun kept most onlookers only present for a short time. After all, the yellow _Caution!_ tape kept them far from what they were interested in seeing, so there really was no point in letting the heat torture their sweaty, reddening bodies any further.

"There has been a murder," one brunet onlooker gossiped to a newly arrived neighbor. "Amber Cartier was stabbed fifteen times!"

The new onlooker gasped, and she shook her head despairingly. "Oh, poor Amber. My daughters will be so upset! This is supposed to be one of the safest neighborhoods that San Francisco has to offer! What kind of danger will this put my kids in? After such a disturbing event, Nancy, how will my kids feel safe playing outside in the back yard when their favorite babysitter is murdered inside her own home?"

The woman Nancy shook her head in mournful agreement. "My family will not feel safe coming in for July the Fourth. That much is certain!" She sighed deeply before adding, "How are you going to act by this, Rebecca?" Her neighbor cast an incomprehensive glance before Nancy clarified, "What are you going to do to keep your family safe?"

"I do not know," replied Rebecca truthfully. "It is so hard to feel safe these days."

Rebecca looked as if she would be heading back into her own house before she saw an impressive line of sparkling clean, black SUVs pull up outside the house. Two men and a woman stepped out of the first of three; the second one had four men; and it seemed as if the third was meant as a cache for supplies and evidence, since the only person occupying the vehicle was the driver.

"What do we have?" Bailey Malone asked an African-American cop, who seemed like he had been hit over the head by a two-by-four. The cop seemed to be mesmerized by one of Bailey's co-workers. When the man did not reply, Bailey cleared his throat.

"Oh, right," the man started. "Uh, Amber Cartier was stabbed fifteen times in the stomach. The murder weapon has not been found."

"Of course it hasn't," sighed the red-haired woman. "That would make things easier for us."

It was then that Bailey remembered his introductions. "Lieutenant Morris, these are Agents Grant and Burke," Bailey said as he gestured to the two individuals standing on either side of him. John put out his hand but did not miss Morris' antagonizing look before he took it. Then Rachel proceeded to shake the Lieutenant's hand.

The quartet entered the house while the other four men from the second car checked the perimeter. The room burst with activity, from camera noises as an officer photo-documented the scene to the usual speculation between officers. Lieutenant Morris directed the three's attention to a chalked outline of a body tainted with stains of crimson blood in a corner on the floor. The chalk was quite noticeable on the black-and-smoke-tiled kitchen floor. As the three agents began to inspect the outline, Lieutenant Morris turned away as he pulled out his cell phone.

John winced at the grungy smell of blood and spoiled what-must-have-been dinner. "Poor girl didn't even finish supper," John said remorsefully.

"Which of course is the first thing you notice," Rachel snarked playfully.

"For your information," John began matter-of-factly, "your phone call did not come early enough for me to get myself some breakfast."

"Hey, I was just forwarding from Bailey! Gripe at him," she said.

John smirked. "Strike two for you, Malone!"

"What was 'strike one'?" Bailey asked with a slightly whiney voice as he disconnected a phone call to George, asking the computer hacker to look for any information on the victim.

"Waking me up in the first place," John grinned.

"Oh please, John," Bailey played along. "We all know you were just dying to see my beautiful Italian face."

"_Half_-Italian," John said, before turning his attention to Rachel, who had been exploring the victim's kitchen. "What are you thinking about?"

Rachel half-turned before refocusing her attention at the table, "I do not think she was eating dinner when he attacked her. She had probably fixed herself this meal, ate a few bites, and turned her attention to whatever she had been doing previously." Rachel began to wander from the kitchen to the open walk-in pantry door. She cocked her head to the side. "Why would you leave the pantry door open if nothing is obstructing it?" she asked as she opened and closed the door a few times.

"Maybe she took a few bites and forgot, like, a spice or something. When she opened the door, maybe the killer was waiting inside. He chased her into the corner, trapping her," John offered.

"It's a good theory," Rachel replied. After she had closed the door again, she noticed an indention in the wall. "But here it looks as if the door flew open."

"So she was heading in that general direction when he flew out at her," John revised.

"Could be," Rachel said. Rachel had learned the hard way that she should not shoot down her co-workers' opinions, especially since they wanted to solve the team's cases just as badly as she herself did.

"I don't know, but this pantry is much more spacious than the one by the refrigerator over there," Bailey pointed.

"Why does one person need two pantries?" Rachel asked.

"You'd be surprised," John said with a grin.

Bailey cleared his throat, then, drawing both their attention and indicated the Lieutenant, accompanied by a brunet woman, heading their way. The Lieutenant looked disheveled while the woman looked enraged.

"You son of a _bitch_," accused the woman as she marched toward the three, her eyes burning into John's figure. The three looked quite taken aback as the woman continued, "How the hell–? What the hell are you _doing_ here?!"

John swallowed hard as confusion spread across his countenance. "I'm... investigating a murder?"

"If this is some sad, depraved attempt at getting me back, you can just forget about it!" she spat. "I swear that I am going to you-know-what you, Cole Turner!"

It was then that John realized she had been thinking he was someone else. "Oh! I'm sorry, Ma'am, you've got me confused with someone else. My name is John Grant, and—"

"John Grant, my ass! If you think that I am stupid enough to believe you are someone else, you are _sadly_ mistaken, Mister!"

"Uh – what is your name?" Bailey intervened.

"Phoebe. Phoebe Halliwell."

"Well, Miss Halliwell, _John Grant_ is one of the best cops that I've ever worked with, and I've known him for a very long time. I think you have him mixed up with someone else." Bailey took a protective step forward in an intentionally intimidating manner albeit not a threatening one. Halliwell seemed to have been caught off-guard, but she did not otherwise falter.

"Well, I guess that I will just have to leave _John Grant_ to solve this murder," she said mockingly. She then muttered, "Although he probably committed it."

"_What_ did you just say?" John said, now outraged.

"You heard me, you evil bastard!"

"You are so lucky you at least _resemble_ a woman," John scoffed.

Phoebe _hmph_ed before letting an embarrassed Lieutenant Morris lead her out of the house.

"Do you know her?" Rachel asked, an amused smile donning her features.

"No!" John replied defensively. "You think I'd date a woman as bitter as that?"

"Well, she does appear to be your type of conquest."

"Appearance isn't everything, Rachel. Contrary to popular belief, I am not so shallow. It's not like I aim to be a player, I just don't like committing. And women leave because they don't want to wait around for me to want to," John said.

"Do you think that she is afraid of committing?" Rachel asked. John's discomfort with the conversation began to amuse her.

"I think she's been burned," John said as he shifted awkwardly.

Bailey interrupted the two before Rachel had any more fun. "Whoever she is, I have a feeling that this will not be our last encounter with her."

"Especially since she seems so into you, John," Rachel added.

"All right," Bailey said. "That is enough."


	2. Chapter 2

**PARALYZED AMBITION  
** By AussieHottieMjM

CHAPTER TWO

"George sent me over some information," Bailey informed as the three settled down in a Starbucks Coffee shop.

Rachel was indulging herself in exotic blends of coffee that had taken forever to explain to the employee, Bailey had black coffee (quite saddened he hadn't thought to pack some scotch), and John had gotten himself a regular bottle of water with his cheese Danish. "After all," he had reminded, "the caffeine isn't good for you."

The three sat in a half-booth, half-table. They all sat in the booth half (they had pulled three tables together) so that all could see the laptop computer in the middle as Bailey read aloud, "Amber Cartier was born January 3, 1970. She's an immigrant from France, here for Grad School."

"A neighbor said she babysat kids in the area for extra cash," John picked up, always in charge of victimology. "Parents said she was pretty much available every night of the year, give-or-take a few off. She hardly ever did anything for herself."

"Do you know which days?" Rachel questioned.

"Nancy Stuart said it was like clockwork; the first day of every tenth of a year, practically. But she said during those days, it seemed like she wasn't home even though her car was out front. The lights were off except for what seemed like candles – flickering and all."

"And she remembered all of this perfectly?" Bailey asked, a little surprised.

"According to Rebecca Harding, Stuart is the street snooper. Makes it her business to know what everyone's up to," John drawled lazily. "Harding swore that Stuart has both video and written documentation of almost every day on every homeowner on the street going back for years."

"Sounds like we found the gossip and the snoop to me," Rachel said, rolling her eyes. "Get a life, people."

"Turns out, Cartier dropped out of college three weeks before the end-of-term. That was a few months ago, though," John informed. "Okay, so what I want to know is why someone would drop out of school with only three weeks to go,"

"And why was she a target?" Bailey asked. "Most likely, she would not have been in contact with former classmates, considering the 'aloof' description that the neighbors have given us."

"It might be something that she did not even realize she was doing," Rachel said. "Or it could be completely random."

"But normally a random murder would be random murders, as in plural. There's only been one," John said.

"So far," Rachel added.

John smiled as he shook his head. "You're very ambitious."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Only because my ambition always seems to prove you wrong," she replied. John smirked.

"Alright," Bailey interrupted, "I will get this information back to George. Hopefully he can find something to help piece everything together."

x x x

"Kind of odd, isn't it?" John questioned Rachel as the two drank beers at a table.

"What is?" Rachel asked, her hair brown in the dark-lit bar.

"We've been working together for a year and a half now. It doesn't seem like it's been that long."

"Yeah, and all of you treated me like family from the moment I arrived. I really appreciated that. It is so hard being the new kid."

"Actually, I gave you a really hard time at the beginning," John said. "I'm really sorry for that." He smiled apologetically. "I know what it's like being the new kid. I moved around a lot as a kid."

"Was your dad transferred around a lot?" Rachel asked curiously.

"Not exactly," John said, before casting a look to change the conversation.

Rachel stopped. An awkward silence settled between the two, so she tried to lighten the atmosphere. "So you really don't remember what happened that night at Quantico?"

"I'll never drink fifty bucks-worth of beer again."

Rachel smirked. "It is a shame. You made quite the entertaining alcoholic."

"Really?" John asked, suddenly very interested. "What did I do?"

"It was more of what you said," Rachel teased, then adopted a deeper, slurred voice. "'Did you know... at Jim Henson's funeral... Big Bird and Kermit sang _It's Not Easy Being Green_... but if you think about it... Big Bird is _yellow_.'" John threw his head back and gave a screeching laugh while Rachel burst into a fit of giggles.

They were actually enjoying themselves outside of work, just like John was enjoying how good a friendship they were developing. But John's cell phone rang, putting their night away from the blood and gore of the Violent Crimes Task Force on hold.

"Grant," John said. "Okay, we'll be there in a few." John hung up and turned to Rachel, "Grace just finished examining the body. Bailey wants us back at the SFPD station pronto because George is sending over the information."

"Let's go, then," Rachel said, getting up immediately. John laid a tip on the table before following the fiery redhead out the door to the car.

"So what are you thinking?" asked John curiously as he started up the engine.

"I am not sure," Rachel said. "I feel like this was done out of rage."

"We don't know for sure yet if she died before the stabbing stopped. Besides, who would want to kill a babysitter?"

"I don't know!" Rachel began to raise her voice, clearly frustrated. John noticed her anxiousness by the pace in which she was talking as it began to accelerate. "I don't know who would want to kill a babysitter, John. But do you know something? I don't know how people find it in themselves to kill, either!"

John hesitated before adding, "I think it's more of what they don't find." He stared at her for a second, and then shrugged. John was a unique character, Rachel had always thought. At times he could be a complete asshole, but then there were moments that Rachel could see vulnerability. It was like the John she went to work with every day was a shell, and inside was a caring man afraid of pain. "Well, I trust your brain just as much as your coffee-making skills," John said.

"You don't like coffee. You think that it is the work of Satan."

"But I still trust the fact that you make good coffee," John grinned. "So what about the crime gives you the idea of rage?"

"Well, getting stabbed is quite a painful way to die, especially the way she was stabbed: in the stomach. The killer avoided the organs, so consequentially she probably bled to death."

"Which means that she was still alive after the fifteen wounds from the knife?"

"Maybe. She was probably just unconscious, so the killer stopped. The sick bastard probably stood over her and watched her bleed to death."

"You think he stuck around after that?"

"Why not? She's single, alone. No one would miss her until she wouldn't show up to a babysitting appointment."

"But the brutality and overall feel of the scene suggests he was in a hurry."

"In a hurry to render her defenseless, to inflict fatal wounds upon her body – it doesn't suggest he was in a hurry to get out of there."

"Well, that puts me to bed at night."

Rachel laughed half-heartedly before straightening up. "I want to go back to her house and see what I can find out about her from her possessions."

"Well, we're not even a minute away from the station. We'll talk to Bailey after we run through Grace's analysis of the body." Rachel nodded lightly before laying her head back on the seat.

"Tired?" he asked her.

"Exhausted," Rachel sighed. "I don't even think my insomnia will keep me up tonight."

John smirked as he pulled into the San Francisco Police Department's parking garage. "If anything, we can visit Cartier's house in the morning. It's not like it's going somewhere."

"If car keys can sprout legs and walk, then so can houses."

"Speaking from experience, of course...?"

"Don't I always?" she said playfully as they headed into the building.

The SFPD was definitely jam-packed. It reminded John a little of Disney World: you could only walk five feet until you inevitably bumped in to another person. Phones were ringing off the hook, and papers covered both the desks and floor. "What a mess," John remarked to Rachel before spotting Bailey. "There's Bail," John pointed. Bailey was hunched over George Fraley, the VCTF's computer hacker – a very coveted worker.

"I thought you said George sent over information," John said as he approached his boss and friend.

"He did... with himself." John smirked yet again, unconsciously tracing a scar below his eye as a result of a suicidal yet successful, heroic attempt at saving a little girl from a serial sniper.

"How is little George doing?" Rachel asked her friend excitedly.

"He is doing okay. I tell you, Grace did not want to leave him with any sort of babysitter while she was at the lab. She actually took him with her!"

"Rachel was upset that they moved the body, but I guess in a way it was a good thing. We got Grace's report back so fast. I thought it'd be a few days," John informed.

"Grace was dying for a reason to leave the house anyway," George said.

"So what do we have?" Bailey intervened.

"She definitely died from loss of blood," George said, at which John and Rachel eyed each other. "Grace determines that she did not pass out until twenty minutes or so after the stabbing stopped. Ten of the fifteen wounds pierced the stomach organ, but luckily it was unable to penetrate the silver lining of it, which in turn kept the acid from-"

"Yuck," John grimaced. "Stop talking."

George made a face before getting back on track. "All stab wounds do not even measure an inch long, but Grace says the blade seems jagged, but not a broken kind of jagged. She thinks that the blade is some sort of odd design, almost... crooked."

John could see that the wheels in Rachel's head were turning. She was staring at a copy of the results in front of her, but her eyes were glazed over as if she were in another reality. She opened her mouth as if she was going to speak, but clearly changed her mind as she closed it, her lips forming into a tight line. "Bailey, if it is okay with you, I would like to take John and head back to the crime scene. I want to get a better feel of who she was."

"In the morning," Bailey said, and John shut his mouth as if he were about to say the same thing. "For now, let's all get some sleep. George, you must be exhausted from the flight."

x x x

A/N: I sincerely apologize for the delay. I had wrist surgery, which is why I was absent activity-wise for the past six weeks. The next chapter will be up around the 16th.


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

Morning came more quickly than John Grant would have liked, and Rachel's knack for waking up in the early light of dawn only annoyed him further. "Are you sure you don't want some coffee?" Rachel chirped as the two left Starbucks for the crime scene.

"Ew," John said monotonously as he unlocked the car door.

"A simple no would suffice. Do you insist on making remarks _every_ time I get coffee?" Rachel asked.

He sat in his car as if seriously contemplating an answer, but John ended up merely smirking in response. Rachel responded with a smirk of her own as she shook her head slightly. "Drive."

John started up the car; they were only five minutes from Amber Cartier's neighborhood and ten from her house. John yawned as Rachel looked blankly out of her own window. John noticed her fun expression slowly grow into a calmed one, which was soon followed by an expression of distress.

"What are you thinking about?" John asked.

Rachel drew in a breath sharply and paused before exhaling. "Things," she answered.

"What kind of things?" John pressed.

"Don't, John. Please," Rachel warned sharply, but quickly regretted the tone she had taken.

"Excuse me for caring about my friend," John said defensively. "You know, you have just about the _worst_ mood swings." John's gaze shifted to hers apologetically before casting his focus back onto the road.

There was a beat, after which Rachel replied, "I was thinking about how real our jobs are. We go through the scenes, look at body after body. I just... get used to it." She looked over at John, her eyes wet. "How scary is that?"

"You can't blame yourself, Rach," John tried. "It's just... human nature."

"What is so human about seeing horrors and not being affected by them?"

"Looks to me like you're being affected by them." A typically John answer. Rachel still seemed to want what qualifies as a real one. "Look," John started, "when you were five years old and one of your older brothers told you to shut up, what did you do?"

"Well, I would either shut up or tell him that he said a bad word."

"Exactly. And then in three years you started saying shut up. And as you got older, your vocabulary became more... adult."

"I do not curse that much."

"But what's the first word that pops into your head when you stub your toe?"

"That is not too great of an analogy, John, and this is not just vocabulary."

John sighed, defeated. "No," he said. "It's not." He pulled over outside Amber Cartier's house. John reached for Rachel's arm as the she began to climb out of the vehicle. "I get used to it, too. I just... work the cases numbly. It becomes typical – God forbid, conventional! But eventually, some case hits me on a personal level or I have some nightmare or something, and I snap back."

"Why do we do what we do?"

"I don't think that's something that can be put into words," John reassured. "You may never be able to fully understand it. Even if you do, other people would not be able to comprehend that reason... not unless they've been there."

"Why do you do it?"

John shrugged. "I like putting the bad guy away... I guess I just like playing hero." He shrugged again. "Or maybe it's something more than that. I feel like work is all I have sometimes, and I feel this need to make sacrifices to that other people don't have to make their own." John began to shift uncomfortably. "Now," John cleared his throat, "let's go play hero."

The two climbed out of the car and made their way into the house. John grimaced at the eerie smells of partly-washed away blood and the chemicals used to clean it. Rachel walked slowly from room to room, and nothing but 'normal' could be read into everything that the profiler looked at. "Everything is so average," Rachel acknowledged.

"Do you think it was staged? That the killer stripped away anything identifying her personality?"

"To stage the house but not the body? No, I don't think so."

Rachel walked throughout the kitchen and the living room before sitting down on the couch. She was not looking at a television set, but a bookcase. "This certainly doesn't make any sense. Who doesn't have a television in front of their couch?"

"Do you remember the Frank Parone case? That girl staged that apartment for her father, but she lived somewhere completely different."

"She was renting an apartment, but no one buys an entire house to not live in it," Rachel stated.

"Then there's something we've missed."

x x x

"All right, George, what do you have?" Rachel asked over the cell phone. George's voice came through strong on the other end.

"I have got the blue prints you wanted, and according to them, the pantry should be twenty by fifteen feet, not five by fifteen. It is also labeled on the prints as a study."

"Thanks, George." Rachel disconnected the call and turned to John. "I think we have found her hiding place." Rachel led John to the pantry. "George said this pantry is supposed to be twenty by fifteen feet."

"Let's find the rest of it." The two began to move their hands around the shelves on the wall. "I can't find anything," John said.

"I think I have," Rachel said along the right side of the wall. "Help me with this." The two carried a large bag of cat food to the center of the room. Then they saw it: a discreet, five-by-five-foot, knob-less door.

"Wow. Wonder who did this great work," John said. "We couldn't have found this unless we were looking for it.

"This explains why the pantry door had been swung open. She must have been inside the room where the attacker was waiting. But why did he move the cat foot over it?"

"She probably did to keep him confined to the room." John pulled out his phone and dialed George's number. "George, can you look for 9-1-1 calls from this location, starting with two hours before the predicted attack time? Thanks." John then tried to open the door, but his fingers were too big. Rachel smiled at the attempt.

"This is a woman's job," she said as she moved forward. John backed away several feet to allow here room. She looked over at him and smirked – one that would challenge his own – and raised her right foot to kick the door. The force of the kick caused the door to bounce off of the wall it was resting against and open, inviting the two agents inside. The two climbed inside a pitch black room. They stumbled over furniture and could not locate a light switch. Thinking quickly, John pulled out his cell phone and began to press a few buttons at a time, lighting the screen and, in turn, the area about two feet in front of him. Rachel pulled out hers and did the same.

"I can't find a switch," said John.

"I do not think there is one," Rachel said, taking note of the candles on the table in front of her. "Do you have a lighter?"

"Don't smoke."

"Why can't you be more like Bailey?" Rachel teased playfully. John shook his head and smiled, even though Rachel could not see it.

"Let's go out and get flash lights," John said finally. Rachel agreed and the two walked out to the car but as they got there, Rachel's cell phone rang. "Hey, Bailey! We found - What? Where?" asked Rachel. Then she sighed, hanging up the phone.

"Don't tell me there's been another murder!" John exclaimed. After all, it had only been two days since the first.

Rachel shook her head. "There was an attempt on some poor woman by the name of Deirdre Ibarra, but three women from the neighborhood had arrived in time to stop him. Ibarra lives on Prescott Street, which is a few blocks away."

John sighed as he climbed into the driver's seat and started up the engine. She survived. John felt a weight lift off of his chest. When he looked at Rachel, she seemed just as relieved. As the two agents pulled to the curb a few blocks away, they found themselves mauled by news reporters. John and Rachel drilled through the mob as quickly as possible and met up with Bailey talking with the victim inside. When Bailey saw them, he introduced them quickly. "Deirdre, these are Agents Grant and Burke. Guys, this is Miss Ibarra."

"Nice to meet you," said Rachel, and John nodded in agreement.

Bailey excused himself and the agents, and then he turned to them, saying, "The three women who saved her live right across the street. I would like you two to interview them. Then, Rachel, come back here to interview Ibarra, and John, meet with George back at the station."

"But Bailey," John said, "we found a hidden room in Cartier's pantry."

"You can check it out with another agent when Rachel and I return. I would like to put all our information out on the table before we make any more moves."

John nodded, and Rachel and he made their way back through the crowd toward a pink manor. But as John raised a fist to knock on the door, he paused at the sudden conversation taking place. Both he and Rachel pressed their curious ears to the door to listen in.

"Well?" the voice John recognized as Halliwell asked, frustrated, after a jingling noise could be heard a few feet from the other side of the door.

"He checks out," a man said.

"_What_?!" exclaimed Halliwell. "What—? How could this be?"

"In very rare cases," the man began to explain. "Only part of a soul is born. In Cole's case, he was half-human. It could be – although possessing a soul – that the demon side of him prevented a piece of his soul from being conceived. This lost part somehow ends up in another being."

"In this case, John Grant."

"Correct. Basically what it means is that one of his parents did not have a full soul, so John received less than he was supposed to get from one of them, let's say his dad. He got half from his mother, but less than half from his father, so that piece of soul that Cole had been denied attached itself into the missing space while John was being conceived."

"But how come his father didn't give him a full portion?"

"Simple: his father committed an act of murder," the man said. "Only something so twisted as taking someone's life can rip away some of your soul. It is the reason some murderers never regret taking someone's life – they lost an important part of them that helped enable them to regret in the first place."

Halliwell sighed deeply. "I guess that I had better apologize, then."

"Demon side?" John whispered to Rachel, who looked just as skeptical and unwilling to find out.

Rachel, however, took the initiative and finally knocked on the door. There was a sudden silence inside; then few steps were heard before the door opened and a flushed Miss Halliwell stood in front of them.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

Halliwell seemed a bit taken aback when she caught sight of the man that resembled her ex too much, and neither John nor Rachel missed it. "Can I help you?" she asked once she had regained her composure, actually sounding sincere.

Rachel answered, "You and two other women saved Miss Ibarra, is that correct?" Rachel did not miss Halliwell's sharp intake of breath.

She nodded and replied, "My sisters and I were playing out front with my two nephews, Wyatt and Chris, when we heard a commotion - like pots banging."

John picked up, "So you went over there to check on her?"

"My older sister Piper never misses the news," Halliwell said, though John could tell she was lying through her teeth. "She is naturally paranoid, and there_was _that murder a few blocks from here. She was really worried, so Paige and I thought that we would humor her." There was a beat, then, "It's a good thing, too."

"If you are free, Miss Halliwell," Rachel began.

"Please, call me Phoebe."

"Phoebe, if you have a chance, we would really appreciate you and your sisters coming down to the local police station where we have set up our headquarters." Phoebe nodded curtly and gently closed the door.

"She has lied more than once. That was pretty believable," John noted.

Rachel responded, "She is hiding something."

"You think that she could be involved?"

"She showed up at the first crime scene, and now she's at this one."

"She knows the killer."

"I think she may suspect someone, but I don't think she'd call him a friend."

"Then why hasn't she made a pitch?"

"She's frightened."

"That's understandable. I'd be scared of a psychopath, too."

"No," Rachel corrected. "I think she's afraid of us."

x x x

John was so far into boredom that he started becoming irritable. George's fingers typed away at a mile a minute, and the _tap, tap, tap_ was enough to send any thirty three-year-old Irishman over the edge. "Do you have to hit that thing so loudly?" John snapped.

George stopped his typing and looked at John sympathetically. "You are just upset because Rachel got to interview Ibarra without you."

"I am in charge of victimology! The least Bailey could do is allow me to do my job."

"You still view Rachel as a threat to your job, don't you?"

"She's good at everything," John replied, looking like an eight-year-old robbed of his candy bar.

"But you're _great_ at what you do," George reassured. "You're irreplaceable, John, and Bailey knows that. So does Rachel." John looked appreciative enough, but George kept going anyway. "Besides, you and Rachel make a great team."

John smiled genuinely, but corrected, "_All_ of us make a great team." John grinned and added, "You can start hitting that thing again."

George rolled his eyes and started typing away at the keyboard as Bailey and Rachel strolled into the makeshift command center. John quickly hopped off the table he was sitting on and leaned over George, peering at the laptop, acting as if he had been helping a great deal.

"What have you got, George?" Bailey asked.

"I may have found something when I was looking through 9-1-1 calls for John. Ibarra, along with a few other women, visited Cartier on the twenty second of June. A neighbor called in a 9-1-1 emergency, claiming there was a great amount of smoke coming from Cartier's house. When the Fire Department arrived, the women had been throwing a bonfire in the backyard. They were ordered to put it out, and it was filed as a misdemeanor because they did not have permission from the City of San Francisco."

"I want those women's names an hour ago," Bailey said, getting across his point of urgency. George began typing at a frantic speed. Then Bailey turned towards John, "I understand you and Rachel stumbled onto some sort of secret room at Cartier's place?" John nodded, and Bailey ordered John and Rachel to head back and investigate with flashlights.

To John and Rachel, it seemed to take an hour to get to the first crime scene because rush hour traffic was at its worst. When the two finally arrived, the agents practically ran inside and returned to the hidden room with gloves and flashlights. The excitement was evident in John's eyes; he had been cryptic of Sam's methods of needing to know the victims but had more than quickly warmed up to the unspoken job that was almost always assigned to him. Now, every time he investigated a case, every time he delved into the life of another, he felt as if he had lost a friend when the case finally closed. He knew the victims so well that testifying in court was a breeze, and going to memorial services or funerals affected him personally.

Rachel first scanned the walls, which could not be seen at all because of the towering book cases all around. John went toward the coffee table that Rachel almost ran into earlier. On it, there were a few books, one of which John picked up and flipped through. "Rach, I think I found something."

Rachel turned her full attention to John. "What is it?"

"The twenty second of June - this book says it's also known as Litha."

"The summer solstice!" Rachel recalled. "These women are Wiccan."

"Which means these were most likely hate crimes!" John finished.

The two were flooded with satisfaction. They were now one giant step closer to solving this case, and both felt as if a huge weight had been lifted. This was the connection.

Suddenly, a bright light shone in the room. John and Rachel both shielded their eyes, which had already become quite acquainted with the darkness of the room. When the light faded, a gasp was heard, and John and Rachel both pointed their flashlights at Phoebe Halliwell and two other women. The other two were obviously the sisters.

"What the hell was that?" John asked, his fear masked with a look of repulsion. In an instant, the sisters' faces went from shock to dread. The evolution was so fast that both John and Rachel swore they merely blinked and the change had happened.

"So, you are John Grant, then?" asked one of the Halliwells. She had long, brown hair and brown eyes, similar to the Miss Phoebe Halliwell that the agents were already too familiar with. Rachel seemed slightly more composed than John, who refused to acknowledge that the one had addressed him by name.

"What the _hell_was _that_?" John repeated with much more emphasis.

"My name is Piper," the one from before said. Then she gestured to the tallest, more colorless woman. "This is my sister Paige, and you have already met Phoebe." Rachel instantly noticed that this Piper seemed just as stubborn as John. She, too, had continued on her one-sided conversation.

Before John's fuse ran out, Rachel stepped in. "I am Agent Burke, F.B.I. This is a crime scene, and you have no authority to be here."

Piper began, "We were just—"

"I think you are a little out of your league," John said fiercely.

"Actually," said Paige, "I think _you _are out of your league. You have no idea what you are dealing with."

"I'm dealing with three women who, as far as I can tell, may have returned to their own crime scene."

"John," Rachel warned.

"What?" asked Phoebe, outraged.

"You heard me! Here you three are at this crime scene, and you openly admitted to being at the second. I'm starting to see a pattern here," John fumed.

Rachel could see red spread along Phoebe's face – whether it was rage or embarrassment, she could not tell. "How dare _you_accuse _me_ of committing murder, Cole—"

"Phoebe, that isn't him," Piper reminded. Phoebe's mouth snapped shut, and she bit her lip.

After seeing Phoebe calm down, John followed suit. He inhaled deeply and proceeded with his line of questioning in a calm manner. "What was the bright light? And how did you three get in here?"

The three eyed each other before Paige spoke. "That was me. I'm – we are witches."

Rachel raised her head slightly. "Were you in the same coven as Cartier and Ibarra?"

"No," Piper picked up. "No, we did not know Amber until her death. We knew Deirdre from just being neighbors. We did not know she was a witch until the other day, when..." She trailed. Then she caught both of her sisters, both of whom nodded in mournful agreement. "When we scried for her," Piper finished.

"What?" John asked, confounded, "'Scried'?"

"It's a magical term. We used a crystal to locate her on a map," Phoebe said matter-of-factly.

"Magic," John said, turning to face Rachel. Amusement rather than annoyance played its way across his face. "They used a crystal."

The corner of Rachel's lips twitched upward before she remembered herself. As ridiculous as it sounded, she urged the sisters further. "And what happened after you scried for Ibarra?" John turned to face the Halliwells again.

Piper continued despite John's mocking attitude. It was apparent to Rachel that she simply wanted to get through this so that she and her sisters could continue doing what they set out to do. "Paige orbed us – that would be the light that you saw – to Deidre's house. When we arrived and explained the situation to her, a warlock attacked."

John smirked. "A warlock as in...?"

"A witch gone bad," Paige said.

"Ah, of course. I should have known that one," John said. "I read about this in a magazine once. Oh, what was it called? _The National Enquirer_."

Before John could spit out another sarcastic remark, Paige stuck out her hand and demanded, "That flashlight!" John's amused face evolved into a stunned one as blue and white lights took shape of the flashlight and altogether disappeared from his hand. After that, the lights began to reappear in the same shape and dissipated, leaving the flashlight in Paige's hand. "Orbed," Paige said smugly. John stood there in disbelief. After he forced his eyes off of the flashlight in the woman's hand, John slowly turned toward Rachel who was still staring at Paige.

"So you saw it, too, then?" John asked his partner. Rachel nodded slowly. "Just double-checking," John said.

"Why don't we talk somewhere with a little more light?" Piper said. Rachel slowly turned and began climbing through the secret entrance that separated the room from the rest of the house. The three women followed her, but it took John a few additional seconds before he himself made his way toward the pantry. In fact, when he finally made his way into the kitchen, the four women began seating themselves around the living room couch.

x x x

A/N: I sincerely apologize for the absence. I simply and truly forgot! I have these chapters all written ahead of time, so if it takes me more than two weeks to post, just send me a barrage of e-mails.


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